“Your” Creations
by Lord R.e. Taylor
It used to be a challenge
Trying to be creative
But those days are sadly gone
Now it may take a little talent
A few minutes of time
And the right computer program
With just the right keystrokes
You can be an artist, a poet, or even an author
Or maybe you can be all three
Remember though, your creations will not be yours
They will always belong to a computer chip
Shared with millions of other “creative people”
Each one “thinks” they are an artist, poet, or author on their own
But all are just pretenders not the same as you
No matter how many keys they press
© Poem – XVIII/VII/MMXXIV
LRET
When it is time to send a greeting card
for birthdays, holidays, and more- each year,
my searching for the right one can be hard;
to make my own is personal and dear.
In my computer program- there I find
the graphic templates and poetic themes
to fashion cards appropriate and kind;
created with an inner love that beams.
Their names appear to let them surely know
my unique card is made for only them.
I print each out with envelopes that show
my matching sets are their artistic gem.
All friends and family look forward to
these cards that truly mean- from me to you.
Today in my role as elementary school counselor
I am allowing the third graders all kinds of freedoms
It is easier than me teaching a counseling lesson
I hope the principal does not choose today to evaluate me
I am giving myself a break after taking two sick days
Slowly oozing myself into my role
Children are delighted
They are given eight choices
Any computer program approved by their teacher
I am their hero
All is well
Unless my supervisor steps in
Administrators want us teachers to record anything physical that happens
This is a grade school, so a lot of physical things go down.
Throwing, hitting, punching, kicking have to be reported.
We enter it into a computer program in our spare time.
In between required meetings, classes, lunch, recess, etc.
Then we get little notes back like this valuable missive.
Did you mean throw, toss, pitch, heave, fling, or sling?
I decided that I was too busy to reply to this insanity.
I agreed to help a teacher with a class once.
Many of the students were unruly.
She kept saying “I’ll wait. I’ll wait.”
I was not willing to wait.
So, I began teaching the computer program to the ones who were not acting out.
The teacher complained to me later that I had done this.
“I only had two hours,” I told her.
“What will they do next week?” She complained to me.
“They can teach the program to the others,” I said.
I was surprised as a veteran teacher she had not considered this possibility.
it be late at night
but the urge feels right
for an early dawn write
at the push of a button
not quite all of a sudden
mind vapors are put in
all the right places
to slow up the paces
and see what's been faceless
these past many months
despite the sighs and grunts
to log in the soup of poetry stunts
where one can build castles
without all the hassles
of computer program rascals
their logic of contexts and contents
a constant of restraints
that somehow just stinks
up down and sideways
nights and days
trying usual and imaginary ways
to log on then today
an email came this way
what happened i can't say
things just went right
this odd saturday night
my butterfly...now...in flight
stan sand
Maybe one day it will all be alright
Maybe one day I'll figure life out
Maybe one day I'll understand myself
Maybe one day life will give me its answers
Maybe one day I'll ask the right questions
Maybe one day I'll find out the reason why
Maybe one day all will be a dream
Maybe one day I'll start it all again
Maybe one day I simply forget what I am
Maybe one day I’ll ascend to the stars
Maybe one day I’ll be a computer program
With no feelings or fecking issues
from New Dawn 2971
Nick Armbrister and other authors/poets/writers
Face time
There you are.
Um…
Gone now.
It is either text or nothing at all.
Some of my friends never hear from their children
Because they do not have I-phones.
I do because I had to learn to text,
Because my children's generation does not call.
I do not even know what their voices sound like.
I doubt I would recognize them any more on a phone.
What about Face time?
Until they perfect it, no thank you.
It’s a video of a child or grandchild waving
and then
Blip.
They are gone
So annoying!
The early days were partly magic.
The time of adjusting your style with mine.
Emotions were running in high gear.
There didn't seem to be enough hours in a day.
We'd talk on the phone for what seemed like an eternity.
We wanted to spend so much time together.
The anticipation we each felt caused our hearts to race.
You knew me better than I knew myself...
now you hardly know me at all...
nor I you.
Where did we go?
Years have passed...our interests changed.
You tell me what I want to hear...
and react like a computer program.
We use to take time for fun.
We'd go to the lakes and play,
Now the grass needs mowing...
and the list keeps growing of projects left to complete.
You see it in my face...like all the lights gone out.
You work long hours and come home beat.
I think you're tired of me.
You think I'm tired of you.
How did we get here?
I can't help but wonder...
if we haven't crossed the point of no return.
P.R.Deremer
After A Lobotomy
Instead of being overtly obnoxious
Could continue to remain cautious
Always careful what you say and do
Not ending up in trouble or a stew.
Make sure you are missing a mishap
And then end up falling into a trap
That someone sinister tried to set
All their odd behavior should forget.
Each action serves as a distraction
Simply trying to sway satisfaction
Lose sight of your goals and plans
Must stay on tune dancing own dance.
Once you are completely back on tract
And on others are not turning your back
People will want you to be sympathetic
Such a shame some seem so pathetic.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
PS. Anyone can enter any of my poems
that they want to in a poetry contest.
Set up a poetry computer program that
automatically will enter one of my best
poems into a contest. That would be
interesting.
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poets/top_100_poets_most_poems_all_time.aspx
I got him at university when I was nineteen:
Too late for me and my anger, but he was spritely;
It was after I'd initially objectified things myself,
By writing a computer program that reacted intelligently.
I should have been entitled to write it at school,
Where my anger was my extra disability,
But I was kept off the systems 'cos of fear,
That I didn't have enough hand dexterity.
My anger was just against fundamentalism,
Christian, and occasionally Islamic as well;
My family was Christian but weighed god as great,
Such that sometimes all I did was my life hate.
Express your anger when you can,
Demand to be met by a psychologist,
Make those around you understand,
You're entitlement to with peace land.
Twenty steps, I thinks not,
The energy I have not got.
Eighteen steps sounds a bit better
Then again I must write a letter.
Sixteen steps is perhaps achievable
But my computer program is retrievable.
Fourteen steps I may make for you,
But you will have to make them too.
Twelve steps, now we are getting somewhere
But where that is I know not, nor care.
Ten steps, yes I' ll think on that,
But I have already walked the cat.
Eight steps, now you are really talking
But what shall I do while I am walking.
Six steps, that sounds more real,
But then again, how do I feel.
Four steps I will think about
But I think I hear a shout.
Two steps, I think that's a dance,
I really don't think there's a chance.
One step and that's to bed,
Activities there, you read my head.
Copyright Mandy M Tams 2011
Not my first Richard but my sixth.
soup lost the first ones when changing something on the site.
when posting still a novices and scared...
he's no musician
those aren't love songs he wrote
they're computer program notes
I slipped away in the nanosecond
it took him to blink
he doesn't know what hit him
maybe a floppy disk
falling from the sky
then again, it could've been
a hard drive
someone needs to hit his system reset button
it ain't me
some other girl can pickup
his dropped parity bit
or worry if everything she says
is word perfect
I've been through his disk drive wringer
probed by his oscilloscope
and had my best chips blown
now I'm sitting by my abacus
a smile on my lips
he can count me out
no modem's attached to my phone
drop me a line in pencil or ink
when you're powered down
then we can backspace delete
alt control home
I dreamed I lost love
that i never even had
it hurt so much
you just wouldn't understand
my dream turned into a nightmare
when i found out my lover wasn't real
when my friend told me i just couldn't cope
pain and only pain was all i could feel
i cried my eyes out
and my friend comforted me
it turned out he was just a computer program
my heart locked and only he had the key
i can't believe he was just a hologram
i really can't because we kissed
he brought me eight roses
the four others weren't even missed
he was really sweet and kind
but he wasn't real and my friend knew all along
she hinted and that's how i figured it out
and that was when everything went wrong
i didn't get to say goodbye
before he had disappear(ed)
what was first a lover's dream
turned into a lover's nightmare